


Dark House

by InsaneWeasel



Series: Dark House [1]
Category: Video Blogging RPF, jacksepticeye, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Horror, M/M, Not that much of a shippy story, Snippets, Violence, incomplete idea, minor mentions of blood, no plot really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 21:51:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13303998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsaneWeasel/pseuds/InsaneWeasel
Summary: There was something dark in this house. Something sentient. Malicious. It passes on its gift to Mark. To Jack. It takes no survivors.[Parts of an incomplete/abandoned story I wrote]





	1. Betrayal

**Author's Note:**

> So brief story-time for the heck of it. 
> 
> I started writing a fanfic on this side of the Youtube fanbase before I was a fan of Fischbach and the Spedicey—but stopped once I became a fan—and then I went back to write it—touching it up every now and then, because I had other fan-fiction to work on. Lo and behold, WKM rolled around and like a punch in the gut—none of my lore was original anymore, because IT SOMEWHAT MATCHES CANON NOW AND AHHHHH. 
> 
> So—yeah, had to cancel my plans for writing in a different fandom—because I gotta be original—don’t wanna be just giving people something they already know. 
> 
> But because it’s gonna just lie abandoned, I figured I’d post some of the scenes I completed—just kind of like one-shots—that just happen to be connected. And some of the actual bonus content scenes that sorta existed to flesh out the lore of the story at the end can exist pretty much on their own—so yeah. There’s that.  
> Without further ado—these scenes.

Jack crowed happily, pulling on Mark's arm. Only a few meters away was the front exit, where through the small windows in the door he could see his car, he could see freedom. “It's there, oh my god,” Jack said. “We can get out.” He took several breaths of relief, feeling a euphoria rise from the depths of his chest. The warm sunlight—although exaggerated given it being the middle of fall—cast a happy light on the dusty wooden floor. He could hardly wait. “We can come back for the others when we go get the police,” Jack said happily and as he turned to Mark, he finally noticed the man's lack of enthusiasm.

Mark was silent. His earnest brown eyes downcast. He freed his arm from Jack's grip, but instead to weave his fingers with Jack's. He didn't move or speak, his warm hand gripping Jack's firmly.

“Mark?” Jack's eyebrows creased, and he looked on his friend with concern. “What's wrong?”

He mumbled something, and Jack heard, “...can't leave.”

Jack shook his head and took a step towards the door, attempting to pull Mark with him. Mark refused to budge; it was as if his feet were suddenly glued to the floor. “We can't save our friends by wandering around without a clue, Mark,” Jack explained softly. “Not with...what's out there.” He looked at Mark again and something niggled in the back of his mind. He wasn't sure what it was, but it made him uneasy. “Hey, Mark, can you let go of my hand? It's starting to feel a little sweaty,” Jack said with a slight, but forced laugh. Mark was starting to, strangely enough, give him the creeps. It wasn't as if Mark was suddenly sporting twenty eyeballs, horns and tentacles, but the usual loud and sure voice had yet to speak up.

Mark looked up. His soft brown eyes focused on him, and they were no longer full of those gentle feelings, but sinister. As Jack stared into them, the brown seemed to burn away, burn away into a dark abyss of blackness staring into him. An abyss like the darkness that pooled around in every area, driving them around like startled rats.

“You can't leave,” Mark murmured and pulled Jack back towards him, his other hand coming up to caress the back of Jack's neck. Jack frozen in terror could not move. He had a funny feeling Mark had been...part of that darkness, maybe even the bringer of it from the beginning. Not that there were any signs then, but there was a feeling in his gut that told him Mark was...Jack couldn't even tell what he was.

“It was you,” Jack whispered softly. He didn't need confirmation, but Mark hummed in agreement anyway. He pulled Jack closer until they were inches apart. A few dozen minutes ago and Jack's heart would have raced for a different reason at this proximity.

Instead, Jack's instincts kicked in. He fought Mark's grip, fighting to free his hand in the suddenly iron grip, but the position wasn't optimal. Jack could not move. Even pushing against Mark, scratching at him, and even swinging did nothing. Mark just calmly smiled. The hands on him tightened and Mark closed the gap between them, their chests pressed against each other close enough he could feel Mark's steady echoing chest beat alongside his own rapid one.

 “Jack, it’s okay,” Mark said softly. Jack could hardly believe him. He looked around Mark, wildly hoping there was some way to escape him or something, maybe even someone to help. The hand on Jack's neck threaded into his hair, pulling Jack's head firmly back so looking at Mark was almost inevitable.

Mark was smiling, a sweet small smile that no longer fit him. Jack couldn't stand it. “None of this,” Jack gestured with his free hand, “is okay.” His breathing refused to slow and the words had come out breathy. Jack was almost certain hyper-ventilating and passing out were not far behind.

Mark chuckled, “Oh, Jack,” he said as if Jack had made a witty comment. He released his iron grip on Jack's hand and instead cupped his face. Jack's hands followed his, gripping Mark's wrist and forearm so if that strength he had felt earlier to keep traversing this mansion came to him now, he might tear them from himself. “It's okay,” Mark continued, “I'm not going to hurt you.” He pressed his lips to Jack's forehead and the green-haired man felt a chill run through him.

“M-Mark, we're friends, aren't we?” Jack whispered.

Mark hummed. Behind Mark, Jack could see the shadows creeping forward the black oozing substance spreading over every surface. Jack tensed, but fought to keep calm.

“If we're friends, then you wouldn't mind letting me have some space. Your grip is getting a wee bit tight.” The last part was a lie, but Jack was hinging on Mark's feeling towards him and spinning a little of the Irish accent in was sure to soften him.

It did. Mark let go for just a moment and Jack took the chance. He turned towards the door, took a step forward and stopped. The door was covered in the darkness; the shadows had spread around them. Jack had unknowingly walked straight into the dark oily goo. He looked down in terror to see the shadows winding around his ankles, like sentient chains; he couldn't move.

He felt Mark behind him, felt the palpable air shift so tensely, before he felt the sturdy arms wrap around his waist. Jack's breathing quieted, too terrified to make a noise.  He felt Mark's own warm breath against his cheek as the man set his chin on Jack's shoulder and pulled Jack tight against his chest. Jack broke down. He cried for the futility of the situation, he cried for Jordan and whoever had been on the other end of that phone waiting for him to get back, he cried for the death he did witness violently, and he cried for the people he didn't really know and whatever fates they had or were going to face. Mark shushed him, gently kissing his cheek.

“Mark, please let me leave. I trusted you, Mark. I helped your friends, I didn't do anything to you! I thought I saved you! I was just hopin' we could go out for coffee, not this,” Jack begged, closing his eyes. So much had gone wrong. Why? Why was it that he couldn't have just said no, said screw it and dealt with debt? He didn’t need this photography job. The hands moved from his waist and he felt Mark move. The hands were on him again, on his shoulders and he felt soft lips on his own. He opened his eyes in disbelief. Mark pulled back and smiled.

“I know, and this is my gift to you. I even let your friend's soul leave after you explained you were just friends. I only want the best for you, Jack,” Mark said, leaning in to kiss Jack again. Jack tried not to flinch. Softly, Mark spoke against him, his forehead pressed against Jack's. “I tried so long to pass this gift onto my friends, but Bob and Wade wouldn't accept it.”

Jack swallowed heavily. “Are Bob and Wade alive?” he asked. He was very sure he didn't want to know the answer.

“Sure, they are!” Mark said, leaning back and gesturing to the darkness. From the shadows came Bob and Wade, but their movements were jerky and their eyes vacant. “Say hi, guys.” Jack watched in horror as their mouths moved like bad animations and the words came out guttural and forced. Mark frowned, “I've been a little tired lately; it’s hard to give them...more life and make sure no one’s just leaving while I'm trying to keep you safe.”

“They're...” Jack closed his mouth and rethought it. “You were controlling their dead bodies, like some kind of demented puppeteer.”

Mark shrugged. “And their souls, but they're being **_butt-holes_** at the moment and **_avoiding_** me,” Mark's voice grew in volume and anger, but the two vacant corpses did not change. The shadows crept back over the bodies and Mark laughed grimly. “Some people don't stay best friends forever like they promised.”

In his stomach, Jack could feel a sickening nausea spreading to his head that made his vision swirl with its contractions. He might become a separated body and soul like them, domed to be controlled by Mark. He was feeling faint. It almost made him grateful when Mark sensed it and steadied Jack by pressing him to his body.

“Are you tired?” Mark asked, concern staring to filter his tones again. Jack nodded. “Don't worry the gift will knock out for a little while anyway. Are you ready?”

Jack stared at Mark numbly; there wasn't even an option. “Yeah, sure,” Jack muttered, his voice cracking.

Mark smiled, “That's the spirit!” Jack close his eyes. He felt one of Mark's hands painfully gripping his hair and the other resting against his chin. “Just open your mouth, Jack.”

What was even going to happen to him? He had to ask himself if it was worth it to fight this or just give in. He peeked his eyes open to stare at the abyss in Mark's eyes and the shadows across his face from the limited light, casting him in a truly sinister role. The charismatic man with the soul-touching laugh was harder to find. Jack opened his mouth and closed his eyes tightly again. The hand on his chin shifted, Mark's thumb wedging itself between his teeth, possibly to make sure he didn't close his mouth.  Jack tried not to concentrate on it, willing himself to zone out. It wasn't working. He felt nothing for a moment, and then a taste like raw sewage in his mouth and an overwhelming amount of something that he couldn't get rid of. He coughed and spluttered, but it didn't go away. His eyes shot open again and he could see the same shadows around them coming from Mark's hand and straight into his mouth. Unable to breath, Jack swallowed it desperately, hoping it would end and he could get a deeper breath of air, but it kept filling his mouth. Jack gripped Mark's arm and tried to wrench it away, but it wouldn't budge. His eyes flitted to Mark's face desperately, but Mark was watching him with detached certainty; he didn't even offer Jack any comfort. His throat and eyes began to burn, tears running down his cheeks. Jack felt himself convulse, a rough cough shaking his body and his chin and the front of his shirt soaked in the oily liquid. His nose ran with the black liquid or mucus, he couldn’t tell. He surely couldn't take any more of this. His legs were almost to the point of failing him when Mark yelped in surprise and pain.

He dropped Jack and Jack fell to the floor, spewing out the black liquid, his body shaking as it fought to empty him of it. The retches came up mostly empty and Jack was left shaking, clutching himself as a phantom pain spread through him. His eyes went to Mark and he could see the man facing towards someone, someone grasping a light. He was clutching a wound in his side, a wound blossoming blood.

“Traitors! TRAITORS!” Mark hollered. “You'll pay, I'll make you pay!” He said, staggering back. He spared Jack a fleeting look before he fled into the shadows.

Jack rolled onto his back away from the surprisingly little he had coughed up, clutching his stomach. He felt like shit. It was like the shittiest hang-over one would feel after trying to drink their way into impressing a girl ten times out of their league. He was still shaking, he couldn't get past it. Mark, the sweet, gentle Mark. Just a few vandals doing it for a viral video. Maybe that's what they were many years ago. Jack groaned. He could hear his rescuers talking, but he could not make out a single word they said. He wasn't even sure he could see them.

With a shuddering breath, he closed his eyes tighter and felt himself falling.

…

Jack had to pretend he didn’t feel sick after he woke up, because Bob and Wade were giving him looks _like they knew_. Like they knew the damned deal he made, because at that time there was no other option except it.

When he couldn’t take their looks—he excused himself to the bathroom. It was outside the salt-square, outside the safety of their base, but he didn’t care.

There was no electricity in the bathroom, but it didn’t bother Jack. He paced back and forth, uncertain and feeling frustrated beyond measure. What could he do to prove to them that he wasn't on Mark's side? He hadn't known the man was evil up until he went psycho in the hall.

Jack gripped the sides of the sink. He felt so sick and everyone kept asking him questions, questions about how he was feeling, what had happened, did he know if he was okay. Jack didn't know and they only made the headache and nausea worse. Was it a panic attack? Was he in shock? Jack knew there wasn't any water he could safely run from the tap so he just hunched over the sink and shook. He was hoping he was going to vomit, maybe then he'd feel less sick.

He coughed. His mouth turned up in a grimace and he frowned. Despite no bile, he wiped at his mouth anyway. Sweat coated his hand, but nothing more. He surveyed the mirror. It was covered in dust and some sort of grime; he wiped some of it away to properly see himself. His face was pale, dark bags under his eyes from the lack of sleep no doubt and the constant travel lately. He was likely running a fever too. Jack felt his stomach convulse again and he dropped his head, his throat burning.

With a forceful, cough, he closed his eyes and winced as the next time he coughed it would be bile. Another wave hit him and Jack ducked his head, his arms shaking. The smell, like raw-sewage and iron hit him and then the next wave, and the next, and the next.

Eventually, it stopped. Jack felt his heart pounding hard in his chest, as well as the extra pounding of someone pounding on the door. Had he closed the door to the bathroom? Was the pounding in his head? He felt so sick, so weak, yet he could feel adrenaline racing through him. A cold sweat covered his neck and it felt like it was almost dripping from his forehead. His hair was hanging loose over his face. He should have really gotten it cut shorter.

Jack stared into the sink and his stomach turned again. It wasn't black, but a dark red. Had he been vomiting blood? He stared at his reflection in the mirror and saw the bottom of his chin still stained with the dark red. The dim light in the bathroom from the outside assured him it was red, even as he ran his hand across the liquid and held it up. He stared at his reflection, and the longer he stared the more he had started to tear up from the smell of blood and sewage, a blackish-red color seeped from his eyes instead of tears and Jack gripped the sink tighter. He tried blinking, but more of the liquid came out, blurring his vision. His nose was running, and he had a feeling if he wiped it away it would be red.

He staggered back and fell into the shower, his back painfully striking the wall. His vision and stomach swam. Jack was dying, he was sure of it. He halfway-lay there, braced from sinking further, but unable to stand. He wasn't sure when it would be over. Jack took a deep, rattling breath. His stomach was calmer and the headache was ebbing away. Hesitantly, he stood. He couldn't see clearly and despite his hoodie being the only upper-wear he had left he used the sleeves to wipe his face off. It took Jack a few dabs at his eyes to clear up the liquid and when he opened his eyes, he still had a bit more to clean up.

Blinking rapidly, he looked at his reflection again and nearly fell backward again. His eyes were glowing—green iris’s, but everything else was milky blue. It was disturbing, unnatural. It freaked him out, because it was _his_ eyes. When he moved to look at them, shifted his gaze, they moved. Was this some side effect? What was this. His hands still looked the same when he looked at them. His skin, his hair, his teeth—all of it was the same. What was wrong with his eyes?

“Jack?” It was Wade, or rather Wade's ghost, as Wade no longer had a body. The ghost had opened the door and was ebbing towards the living man slowly. Jack turned towards the ghost hesitantly and looked at him. Wade was staring at him with wide eyes. He took in the blood and then looked up slowly towards the eyes. The ghost took a few steps backwards. “Holy shit.”

Jack held up his hands in an open gesture of friendliness. “Wade, I'm f-fine. E'm not like Mark,” the Irish accent dominated his words when he was nervous and Wade was giving him a look of horror like he'd killed someone. Wade shook his head back and forth a few times and started looking around. As if he couldn't bare to look at Jack any longer.

“Y-you don't understand, Jack. Mark started the s-same way.” Jack stared at him in disbelief. He was fine. He wasn't like Mark. He was still perfectly goddamn sane. “Y-you're not safe to be around others,” Wade said, swallowing. The ghost looked out the doorway and must have saw someone, because he said in relief. “Bob, tell the-”

But he never finished, Jack had felt a twisting in his gut. In the next moment, he lunged for Wade. Wade swung the door closed and to Jack's surprise, in a blink of an eye he seemed to have teleported. He was now right in front of Wade. The ghost stared at him in utter surprise. “Don't tell anyone shit, Bob,” Jack shouted towards the other ghost. He glared at Wade. “I'm. Fine.”

“You're not...but you're not dead,” Wade hissed. He began to back up, but Jack could feel Wade, he could feel Bob and he could feel Mark lurking somewhere nearby. When he focused his attention on Wade, the ghost stopped moving, frozen to the spot. It was like holding a heavy object, he could feel the strain of it on his arm and when he reached out to stop Bob, he could not. Bob disappeared around the corner, likely going to get the group. “Jack, snap out of it,” Wade begged. “I didn't mean it—it's just your eyes-”

“What about them, Wade?” It wasn't Jack that spoke, but Mark drifting out of one of the rooms. He was grinning from ear to ear. “I think they're beautiful.” Jack felt a tinge of hesitation and his grip on Wade lessened. Wade disappeared immediately leaving Jack with a sickening realization he wasn't in his right mind anymore and that Mark was looking at him like it was their wedding day or something.

He wasn't normal anymore, what had happened to him? Jack looked in horror at his hands again, but there was nothing different to them. Unless he looked in the mirror, he knew from just standing there he couldn't tell anything different amiss in himself. Mark was approaching, slowly as not to startle Jack. Jack's eyes darted to him. “What did you do to me?” Jack hoarsely spoke, his throat still sore from the earlier episode. “What am I?”

Mark just smiled and he closed more of the gap between them. They were now only a meter apart. “Your true-self, Jack,” Mark said and reached a hand out to Jack, but Jack took a step back.

“Get away from me, ye freak,” Jack said, feeling himself tripping over his own goddamn feet. He ended up falling flat on his arse like an idiot. Mark chuckled and closed the gap between them to offer a hand to Jack to help him up.

Mark looked normal again. His brown irises were on white eyes, the black pupils appraising him as Mark offered him a hand. The hand was normal, slightly dry and rough, but still radiating a certain warmth. If anything, Mark looked normal, his hair tousled in the right direction, his flannel shirt no longer disheveled, the wound in his side gone. Mark caught his gaze and pulled up the shirt to where the wife-beater was underneath and then gestured to the hole in it. The blood was gone from it, and so was the wound underneath, only the hole ever showing something went wrong to begin with.

“They took a chunk out of me, but it wasn't too hard to come back from,” Mark said, letting the flannel shirt fall back into place. “Thanks for the concern though,” He said with a chipper tone. Jack rolled his eyes.

“I wasn't concerned, ye bastard,” Jack scoffed, but his heart wasn't in it. He should hate Mark to death right now, but it was hard to. Mark looked normal and Jack still felt normal right now. “I would like for you to explain what in the hell ye did to me,” Jack said. Mark raised an eyebrow and gestured with his hand again, proffering it to Jack more vigorously.

Jack took it reluctantly and Mark beamed at him. “I'll explain it all to you soon, but,” Mark said and Jack heard voices, “we need to move. At least while one of your little friends has a gun loaded. They can't kill us, but boy does it fucking hurt.” He hissed at the memory of the bullet and ran a hand over his side before taking Jack by the arm and steering him into the darkness. “Not to mention that damned salt and Wade and Bob clearing a path in the darkness, damn traitorous bastards.” Jack could hardly follow, he tried to pull from Mark's grip and he succeeded this time. Mark's strength was hardly as prominent now and Jack appreciated it.

“Wait just a damn second,” Jack hissed to Mark. “Ye're gonna explain while I can suddenly teleport around and why my damned eyes and nose and everything was just bleeding,” Jack demanded, even as the voices grew louder. Mark gave him a sideways look, but turned to him fully.  He crossed his arms and sighed.

“Well, _I_ was unconscious for most of my… rebirth,” Mark said, “and by the looks of it, you're not. So, I can't explain while you're spewing chunks and crying blood, but I can tell you your eyes and as far as I know abilities are perfectly natural.” Mark considered him and shrugged, his eyes darting to the light coming towards them. “However, I can't teleport, and if you would like to do that now for the both of us then that would be greatly appreciated and rewarded.”

Jack snarled, “Rewarded?! Am I dog to ye, Mark?” Mark glared at him. “I'm not doing shit for you. Ye lied to me, ye made me an abomination and now 'm being hunted down by me own 'friends'. If e'm gonna teleport away from here, e'm leaving ye here,” Jack said, jabbing a finger in his chest. Mark's eyes were getting darker, but Jack could hardly care. Mark had already done his worst to him, Jack had nothing left to lose.

That was until a bullet came whizzing through the air and stuck itself right in his goddamned leg. Jack howled in pain and Mark whipped towards the source and the shadows crept away from them and to the group. He felt Mark's arm under his and Mark half-dragged him and half-carried him into the next room. “For your information,” Mark said as he didn't hesitate, running his hand over Jack's wound as the darkness seeped from it and into the wound, loosening the bullet, “I view us a perfectly even and have been nothing, but a good host. The thing is, _you're_ new at this and _I'm_ not, this thing… being traitorous friends.” Jack winced in pain, grabbing Mark's arm as, with a painful tug, the darkness pulled the bullet out. “And if you don't want to end up like I did ten years ago bleeding in a basement hearing the screams of my supposed friends after they fell right into my goddamned trap trying to leave me like some goddamned dead animal, because they wouldn't even give my gift a goddamn chance then you'll stop throwing a fit like a little bitch and listen to me.” Jack stared at Mark, but he couldn't find the words to say. The other man looked him in the eyes and Jack saw Mark's eyes were back to normal.  The voices were growing close again and Mark gripped Jack's hands and stared at him, begging him.

“Teleport us,” Mark said, gripping his hands. “And I'll make sure that should you go through the same goddamn painful thing I did, you're not going through it alone.” He seemed so human in that moment, but Jack was pretty sure Mark was mostly unhinged.


	2. The Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the ending of this work that got up to 14,000 words [not in Chronological order] and a whole idea for the lore and stuff--but like I said--I just don't have the heart to continue it. It's not nearly as cool as an idea as it once was to me.

**Later**

Jack stared at the writing on the walls. The last desperate words written in blood: “He's not me.” The first time he had seen them, Mark had waved it aside, assuring Jack it was just in his delusions trying to feel better about the whole dark powers thing, yet as Jack stared at those words, his heart thumping in his throat he wanted to break down right then and there.

But it would be to no use. He couldn't run from Mark forever, or should he even call _that thing_ Mark. Whoever Mark was, that guy isn't Mark. Jack felt his knees give out as he stared at the words and he humorlessly thought to himself. Mark. Only one letter off from Dark. Dark'd be a better name to call that thing.

What does he call what's inside of him? He doesn't have control over himself completely, and focking hell if Jack thought he'd have to say that in _this_ context. Being drunk and dumb is one thing, but having your soul consumed from the inside by some kind of demon of some sort and becoming a monster.

It's something else.

Jack grimly looks at the ground, because he can feel something tickling at the back of his mind and he feels his body shudder. This time, he's not going to share. Jack knows. He doesn't move, breathing in and out, it feels as if he's falling, like his legs have gone numb, his fingers too and its slowly moving up his arms.

Mark—or rather Dark, as Jack's so _fondly_ decided upon—has found him, he's standing in the doorway, but he's smirking, the smile hardly fitting the warmth that the real Mark likely held, but Jack doesn't look up. He feels like he couldn't if he wanted to.

He wonders if he should pray. Yet, he can't move his lips if he wanted to. They feel so distant, so far away from his body. He feels himself crack his neck, popping a kink, but he hasn't moved. Or he didn't try to move. The numbness keeps spreading and Jack wants to cry out, maybe even say or think something poetic, but he's rooted—everything feels black. And green. Not like pastures on a rainy day, or Ireland—his home land, but instead like dirty money, sickly faces, computer error text, and strangely enough he has images of graveyard grass and Jack is aware he can't see the floor anymore.

“ _Goodbye, Jack, I can't say I'll miss you, but I did enjoy our time.”_ The distorted voice tells him. It sounds faintly like his own.

Jack wants to fight it and for a moment, everything's clear, his body, his mind, everything and he laughs, a grim, hopeless laugh as for that moment he feels the dark presence in his body and mind and the horror and terror that have plagued him are gone, buried beneath the realizations of being played for a fool and that he won't be able to think much longer. He's been played, but he's not accepting it.

“Irish blood doesn't hold evil too well, only liquor,” Jack finds himself saying, and those are his words, and his tongue has chosen to say them. While he has control, he'll get his last words in. He looks up at Dark, knowing whatever cursed thing is in him can already see from his point of view. Dark grins at him, satisfied and merely humored by Jack's last struggle. “And I'll bet American blood craves freedom. Through whatever valley of death I'm walking next, you bet that I'll want a foot massage and _my_ body back.”

The control starts slipping, but Jack catches the look as Dark's grin slips, a slight worry hidden under the evil-eye and pursed lips. The blackness is around him and Jack sees nothing, but feels more. Like a tendril of rope around his wrist—tight, holding him strong—and then its snapped, as crisp and sudden as a shutter on a camera. In that moment, it’s like he was in the basement, outside of his body, watching his own form rise as he's falling through the floor, his form becoming a swash of white light being consumed by green.

He imagines that he can smile, it’s a half-assed one, because really he feels on the verge of tears, but he tries to imagine he'd put on a devil-may-try smile and go out as bravely as the heroes in the tales go, but he's screaming. Screaming with whatever voice he has left as he goes head over heels into the void, watching the green light overhead fill what used to be his body.

 


	3. Point of No Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Found Footage (1/5): “(The Second Anti-Derivative of an Acceleration)+(Preposition)+(!)+(Enter)”  Footage of Mark and Bob and Wade trying to do his charity haunted game time spooky thing—ordeal.

 

 “Three, two, one...”

“Hello everybody, my name is Markiplier,” he says dead set into the camera, his glasses glinting, “and I have with me Bob and Wade,” both wave, smiling good naturally” and we're shooting our Halloween  Spooktacular on a real live location of a haunted house.” The place is lit by candles and the men stare into the camera wickedly but, Mark accidentally laughs.

“Cut.”

...

The camera lowers and turns off. When it turns on later Mark is leaning against the wall checking his phone. The house is bright and nowhere near as spooky, he looks up questioningly.

“Behind the scenes footage?” Mark asks, there's no verbal answer, but Mark grins. “Alright, as you can see around us,” he gestures to the lights, “this place isn't really much of a spooky haunted house. We obtained a permit to be here and they turned on the generator for us.” He chuckles and gestures further down the hall where its dimmer and fades to blackness. The camera follows by zooming in briefly. “Except Wade almost started a fire down there when he shot one water gun too close to an open mess of wires. Just messed up the lighting down there.”Mark pauses before hollering, “Thanks, Wade!”

“It was an accident,” says an approaching voice, “if you hadn't moved-”

The camera lowers as everyone giggles and laughs and incomprehensible comments are made. The blue carpet they're standing on goes dimmer as another light shuts off and you here multiple voices say “WADE!” followed by laughter.

…

The camera is on again, Mark's holding it himself and grinning. Behind him Wade's propping a flashlight up in a general circle of flashlights to make a lit-up area, Bob aides him by tearing off pieces of tape. “The generator had a problem so we're making do in here with,” he moves the camera over his shoulder to Bob and Wade who are too distracted to comment, “that arrangement,” Mark finishes, focusing the camera on himself. “It'll truly be like a horror game, almost as bad as Amnesia now. Kathryn's running to get more batteries for the flashlights so we can finish up the last three scenes.” Mark stairs deadpan at the camera. “We'll probably die without her, my water bottle is almost empty.”

Mark shifts the camera towards Bob and Wade as Bob mutters, “Just fill it with tap water.”

“The plumbing works?” Mark questions off camera.

“The toilets flush and we could wash our hands,” Bob says and shakes his head. “You're such a dumbass, Mark,”

“Well, why do we have water?” Mark questioned, his voice louder and higher-pitched. Bob shrugged and behind him Wade walks out of view of the camera. “Maybe the widow that used to pay the water bills here paid it for years in advance—they did say she was kooky. Or maybe the city forgot. I once got free cable for two years, because they plugged stuff in wrong.”

Mark turns the camera back on himself. “It’s probably going to poison me, but lets try it!”

“I have another water bottle, Mark-”

“Nah, its good, Wade,” Mark cut him off and he smirks into the camera. “Let's go try some haunted water.”

…

When the camera turns back on, Mark's showcasing a bottle of water. Judging by his ability to use both hands and Bob watching him, Wade is holding the camera. “Ta-da!”

Bob snorts and shines a flashlight from the bottom of the bottle up. “Looks clean.”

Mark opens the bottle and holds it to his lips.”Should I chug it?” He brushes some stray hairs from his face and examines the bottle himself. “Feels like the water's pretty luke-warm...oh well.” He looks at the camera and salutes the camera with the bottle. “Bottoms up.” Mark chugs a fourth of the bottle before stopping and spewing the water on himself and Bob who looks disgusted. Wade snickers behind the camera as Mark takes a ragged breath.

“What's wrong?” Wade questions. “The taste?”

“N-no,” Mark hisses, coughing, “it was cold, a lot colder than I expected.” He steadies himself and takes a swig, swishing it around in his mouth. Bob, who was wiping his face off raises an eyebrow.

“How's it taste?”

“Minty,” Mark decides, swallowing. “A fresh, crisp-winter mint taste,” Mark expands.

“That's weird,” Wade mutters and then snorts. “You were sucking on a cough drop earlier and it got lodged in your throat, sure that's not it?”

“Oh yeah,” Bob says laughing as Mark goes red in the face, his cheeks and ears flushing slightly in embarrassment.

“Save me my torn dignity, it's the water! I tell you!” Mark absently sets the water down and checks his phone. “Looks like we'll have to do the next scene by ourselves. Is Chica still napping?” Mark questions.

“Yeah,” Bob mumbles, as the camera is lowered and turned off another conversation starts up, “So we'll-”

…

“Is the camera on-”

“You're not recording this-”

“Am to,” Wade swivels the camera away from his face and in the dim light offered by the glow of flashlights, Mark is attempting to grab his phone, which sits precariously on an old crate beneath a laundry chute without stepping foot into the water. “Comedy gold.”

“Shuddup,” Mark says, stretching out while clutching the door-frame. “I wouldn't have dropped it you hadn't offered me lotion.”

Wade snorts, while Bob from behind Wade says: “You asked for lotion.” Mark turns around, pulling away from the water.

“I didn't ask for you guys to throw it at me,” Mark says before addressing the camera. “Alright, alright, what really happened here is I dropped my phone into a laundry chute while putting on lotion and it just so happens the basement is flooded.” He pushes hair out of his face and motions to the crate. “Luckily, my phone didn't land in water, but as you can see here,” he shines the flashlight on the dark water, that still looks to be a dark sludge, even under the light, “that doesn't look too much like the kind of water I want to wade through.”

“We could just leave it?” Wade suggests and Mark shrugs.

“Honestly, I'm leaning towards that,” Mark says, giving one last half-assed shot at reaching for the phone, His fingers clutching the door-frame are white and when Mark leans half an inch more, his left hand in inches of the phone, one of his fingers slips and he tumbles into the water.

“Mark!”

The camera is hastily shut off.

…

Wade kneels over an unconscious Mark whose chest rises and falls steadily. Bob appears from off to the left of the camera, shaking his head. “No sign of Kathryn. I've put some of the equipment in the car. Think it’s time we drive back to the hotel as soon as we figure out where Chica is. How's Mark?”

Wade shrugs uneasily. “No clue. This town doesn't have a hospital and we're in the middle of nowhere. I'm thinking he hit head on the crate or something. He didn't look to have swallowed any water, he's just...”

“I know, I saw it too,” Bob says and he looks over. “Looks like you left a camera on.”

“I did?” Wade asks and glances up at it. “Huh, I thought I turned that one off.”

Both turn as Mark's coughs and his eyes flutter open. Perhaps due to the camera angle, they appear a dark black, but judging by Wade and Bob's shock, the gasps and the tensing of their shoulders it is not. “Mark!”

The man groans and bats away Wade's hand. “'m fine. Ughhh...” he tries to sit up, but falls back on his elbows, the black eyes gazing around. “W...whaz...what...hap...happened?”

Bob is staring at Mark's eyes and he waves a hand in front of Mark's eyes the causes the man to turn to him. “You fell in the water and hit your head on a crate. Can you see?” Bob asks.

“Y-yeah...wh-y?” Mark questions, trying again to sit up. He succeeds and his hand comes up to rub his eyes.

“Your eyes are black,” Bob explains as Wade curses under his breath.

“Probably pigments or something in the water. As soon as we find Chica we need to get you to a hospital,” Wade goes to stand up, but Mark grabs his arm and shakes his head.

“Where's Chica?” Mark asks, his gravely voice becoming clearer as he coughs.

“I don't know, she took off while we were in the basement.”

“Fuck,” Mark uses Wade as a crutch to stagger to his feet and both of his friends look at him concerned. “Chica, Chica! Here girl,” his voice is ragged and he coughs, a hoarse retching noise. Black and red droplets spray from his mouth onto the hand he clumsily put over his mouth. He starts along, ignoring Bob and Wade's concerned looks as walks out of the camera angle, one hand to the wall as he fumbles along.

Bob and Wade exchange looks, before Bob stands up. “Turn off that camera and pack the rest of the things in the car. I'll go get Mark,” Bob says quickly before disappearing out of camera frame with one of the flashlights. Wade is left alone in the camera shot and he approaches the shelf the camera is sitting on. The camera's image moves partially, pressed against his shirt before being turned around where it faces a mirror; it had been sitting on the mantel above the fireplace.

Wade, with his lips pursed and his hands shaking nervously, is tapping on the button with the symbol for on/off with no success. He looks hastily in the direction Mark and Bob went and tries again to turn the camera off. Nothing happens.

He stares into the mirror for a second, before he hears a loud crash. Camera and flashlight in hands, he whips around, the camera angle spinning rapidly before falling on the hallway dimly lit by the flashlight in his hands. “Mark? Bob?” Wade calls.

There's no response and hesitantly, Wade takes a few steps down the hall. After a curse or two, Wade walks more determinedly. The camera is hanging from his hand, so it seems by the shaking. The view is determinedly sideways—capturing the empty and dark hallway where shapes and furnishings emerge only as the light passes over them. As Wade steps further into the room the footage corrupts, a high-pitched ringing noise and static filtering over the remaining footage. 


	4. Darkiplier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Found Footage: (2/5): The Footage of Mark left bleeding by Bob and Wade and

 

The camera is lying on its side abandoned on one of the crates across the room. Light coming in from the basement window shows the agony across Mark's face and the pooling red surrounding him. He groans and tries to roll onto his stomach with no success.

“Goddammit,” Mark clutches his side in agony. The bullet holes well with blood that is already soaking his shirt. “You're going to pay, the both of you!” Mark hollers, coughing. His coughs give in to retches that are empty and long, hard and make his whole body shake. His hands grasping his sides stretch out reluctantly, looking for something, anything to help himself.

There's a soft whine and the sharp pitter patter of claws on the concrete floor. Chica emerges at the edge of the camera, running towards Mark, a loud whine in her throat. The man gasps and murmurs weakly, “Chica, n-no.”

The dog is uninjured, her body covered in only dust and cobwebs. She barks quietly and paces beside Mark. Her leash has been chewed through in a desperate, but successful attempt to free herself. “Chica, go, leave, p-please.” Mark begs the dog. The dog only whines louder and nudges his outstretched hand, laying beside him whining.

He can only weakly smile until another wave of pain hits him and he cries out. Chica whines again and   inches closer, licking his face and neck desperately, growing more worried and whining as she tastes Mark's blood. Sucking in a breath, Mark clutches his side with one hand and pets Chica with the other, rubbing his bloody hand through her fur. “I'm s-so sorry,” he whispers, his body shaking with pain.

…

The camera flashes to static an error message in the corner. Corrupted footage, but it resumes again, with Mark's bloody hand on the wall. A gash is dripping from the side of his neck, but he doesn't seem to notice. The bullet holes are gone. In the corner of the footage a hulking black creature with many rows of sharp teeth growls, but makes no move to attack Mark. Blood drips from its teeth, but from a much wider gash a yellowish substance oozes from its could be presumed flank—it does have six legs, four in normal places and one under its chest and one under its tail so its a little hard to tell.

Mark draws his bloody hand across the wall and the footage flickers. Mark has moved, the start of words formed already on the wall. “He's not...” Mark is breathing raggedly and occasionally stops, tearing at his hair and screaming. The footage flicks to black and back again and Mark is viciously writing the word “me”, tears of blood running down his face, mixed with the ever darkening black as he screams in pure agony again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the series it's connected to for the Supermega end scene. God I love those screaming boys.  
> This feels like a goddamn Creepypasta.


End file.
